


For The Best

by GhostedArmy



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: M/M, This was kind of a 3am vent piece, but have this anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 13:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostedArmy/pseuds/GhostedArmy
Summary: He was a bird with two broken wings, a wolf with no teeth, a body with no mind of his own.





	For The Best

Sometimes, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be real. He was a puppet, with flashes of memories and thoughts and wants, but in the end he wasn’t real.

He’ll start to feel like he was coming through, breaking free from the hold on him, only to fall further into the hole. He felt like a wounded animal, slinking through tall grass in desperate search of help, only to come across things that struck him with more knives.

But he didn’t feel them now.

He didn’t have a name. Didn’t have feelings, thoughts of his own. He was the hood and the hood was him. The camera was his solidarity, the hood his identity, and.. And…

His thoughts trailed off. He looked around, seeing nothing but trees. Gnarled branches twisted and turned, shaping delusions and visual mind tricks. Birds sang a grim song of the coming winter, already mourning for the dying leaves and frozen streams.

A black box of moving static was in front of him. His fingers itched with the urge to change the channel, to stop this madness.

He reached forward, but stopped. A cough was forcing its way into his throat, into his mouth, begging to be released. He sent a silent prayer to whatever uncaring God above, to let this fit be short.

He brought his outstretched hand to rest it against his throat, as if it would help hold his breath in.

His body shook, and he felt nauseous. He hacked and spluttered in the mask, and fumbled to take it off. He pulled it off, leaning forward and catching himself on his hands and knees. His chest ached, his throat burned, and tears streamed down his face. He felt the familiar tinge of copper on the back of his throat, the phlegm tinged red when he spit.

The fit died away after what seemed like an eternity. The woods were silent, the wind scraping branches together, mocking his debilitated state. He was a bird with two broken wings, a wolf with no teeth, a body with no mind of his own. His arms mindlessly pulled his mask back on.

Leaves crunched nearby, and it took most of his remaining energy to look up. A mother and her son were walking through the forest, laughing and playing in the leaves. Their joyful cries of happiness struck him, and left him with a faint taste of homemade french toast. Fresh strawberries from a distant relative’s field, market blueberries, and honey made from his mother’s bees.

He struggled to his feet as they came closer, but they didn’t seem to notice him. They passed him, and he sat in silence until he could no longer hear their voices.

A ghost of a chill snuck its way into his hood, and he felt his body shiver. But he wasn’t cold. He could never feel the cold anymore, whether it was sun or shade, day or night. He was not a person anymore, but instead a vessel for whatever demon was possessing him.

Maybe it was him. Maybe the demon was who he was before, and this was him reclaiming who he was before.

Flashes of memories hit him.

Filming with Alex, and then going to dinner afterwards, just the two of them. Laughing with Tim and spending nights tucked together in the same bed. Running in the rain with Jay, enjoying being crazy and free young adults with no worries in the moment.

Kissing girls, kissing boys, kissing those whose genders didn’t match the binary put in place. He remembered musicals, sports, acting, games. The games were his favorite, late night post-filming sessions with everyone. Hide and seek with drunk young adults, except for Jay, never Jay. Said it was due to a bad experience, but Tim said something one day about his dad. 

But it wasn’t a game now. None of this was a game. It was life and death, now.

He remembered his old self, happy and laughing and hopelessly in love with life. Now what was he? An empty, broken shell of what once was beautiful.

He heard leaves crunching behind him, and turned around. The Martyr was there, following the Neophyte. Voices drifted on the wind to him, hearing them talk.

“-getting dark-” He heard, and stood. He moved almost silently through the brush, watching the two talk. The Martyr moved away, walking the direction the two came.

He stepped down, closer to the Neophyte. On a different day, maybe in the past, he would have been greeted with a hug or (hopefully) a kiss. Today, though, he was met with a glare. He stumbled towards Alex, arms outstretched, and wrapped his arms around his neck. Arms circled his waist, and he was brought back to a different time.

They were together for a shoot, with the promise of being together afterwards in a different light. He had hugged Alex with one arm, and Alex pulled him closer, pinned him against the wall of the shoot, leaned in close.

He was brought back by a voice in his ear, asking him if he was back, if he was real. He pulled away to stare blankly at Alex. As he watched, the other reached up to push away his mask, exposing a chin, lips, a nose, eyes. He blinked against the light, before the Neophyte leaned in. Alex tilted his head to the side, lips barely brushing his. After a second, Alex pulled away with a sigh.

Static roared in his ears, and he reached up to pull his mask back down. He backed away from the Neophyte, turned tail, and fled. He bolted through the trees and bush, racing away from Alex, towards the grassy field before the wood.

A shout had him racing faster, his blood pumping and body shaking with the effort. He ducked behind a tree, and the Martyr raced passed his hiding spot a moment later. He watched the other continue to run, chasing the Liar.

Maybe he wasn’t the target this time after all.

He remembered the looks the Martyr used to give the Liar. Soft, half-lidded looks in stolen moments. The Liar was always too blind to see it, but the Martyr craved the Liar, wanted Tim.

He felt a coughing fit come over him once more, and he dropped to his hands and knees. He coughed and coughed until there was black at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t remember how long it lasted. He didn’t know how he had gotten to the woods. He couldn’t remember why he was there.

He couldn’t remember anything, and maybe, he thought, that was for the best.


End file.
